I woke up before my alarm, my body already tense as if it had been shaken awake by something unseen. My room was quiet, too quiet for a day like that. Finals day. Student week's last breath. The kind of day people circled on calendars and talked about weeks before it arrived.
But lying there, staring at the ceiling, I didn't feel excitement.
I felt watched.
My muscles ached in places they shouldn't have, dull reminders of the days leading up to the finals, hard tackles in training, late fouls laughed off by referees, shoulders driven into my ribs when the ball was nowhere near me. None of it had been serious enough to complain about. That was the problem. It was calculated. Controlled.
I sat up slowly, letting my feet touch the cold floor. My phone buzzed once. A message from a teammate in the group chat,"Big day boys đ„". I didn't reply.
Outside, the campus was already alive. Music thumped from different hostels, overlapping beats clashing in the air. People moved in groups, laughing too loudly, wearing jerseys, painting faces, carrying bottles they would pretend were water until security stopped caring. Everywhere I looked, there was colour. Noise. Anticipation.
And beneath it all, something rotten.
On my way to the bathroom, someone brushed past me in the corridor. Hard. Shoulder straight into my chest. I staggered back, my heel scraping the floor. He didn't apologize. Didn't even turn around.
"Watch yourself," he muttered, like I was the one in his way.
I recognized the voice. One of theirs.
I washed my face longer than necessary, staring at my reflection. My eyes looked darker than usual. Older. I told myself it was nerves. I told myself this was normal. Finals pressure.
But pressure doesn't whisper threats under its breath.
I almost told Eunice not to come.
The thought sat heavy in my chest as I walked toward the court later that morning. I had invited her days ago, when things still felt light, when Student Week was just games and laughter and shared glances across crowded spaces. Before the edge crept in.
By the time I saw her, it was already too late.
She stood near the sidelines with a few friends, dressed casually but unmistakable. Eunice had a way of standing still in a crowd and somehow pulling focus. Not loudly. Not deliberately. Just presence. When our eyes met, she smiled.
I didn't.
Her smile faded almost immediately.
She walked toward me, weaving through bodies and noise. When she stopped in front of me, her brows were already drawn together.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I'm fine," I said too quickly.
She looked at me the way people do when they hear a lie they don't want to challenge yet. Her eyes flicked over me, my shoulders, my jaw, the slight stiffness in the way I stood.
"You don't look fine."
I forced a small smile. "Just game face."
She didn't smile back.
"Something feels off," she said quietly. "Since yesterday."
I shrugged, pretending to adjust my jersey. "You worry too much."
Eunice hesitated, then leaned closer so only I could hear her.
"Be careful today," she said. "This place⊠when people feel cornered, they stop playing fair."
I stiffened. For a moment, I wanted to tell her everything. The shoves. The looks. The way some smiles had felt like promises of pain. But the crowd surged around us, chanting, laughing, living in ignorance.
I nodded instead.
"Enjoy the game," I said, already stepping away.
As I walked toward the bench, I felt her eyes on my back. I didn't turn around. I told myself it was better that way.
Later, I would realize that was the first real mistake I made that day.
The locker room smelled of sweat, disinfectant, and something sour that clung to the back of my throat. It was louder than usual, jokes flying, boots hitting benches, someone playing music from a cracked speaker, but the noise didn't reach me properly. It moved around me, like water around a stone.
I sat down and began taping my wrists.
Halfway through the second wrap, the bench beside me dipped.
I didn't look up. I didn't need to.
"You made it far," a voice said casually. "Enjoy days like this."
I kept taping.
Something hard slammed into my ribs from the side. Not a punch, an elbow. Sharp. Surgical. The air burst out of my lungs in a short, ugly sound before I could stop it.
I turned, already too late.
Another elbow drove into the same spot, deeper this time. Pain bloomed white-hot, like something tearing inside me. I bit down hard on my tongue to keep from shouting.
"Careful," the voice said again, almost kindly. "Wouldn't want you injured before the match."
A third hit came lower. I folded forward, coughing, spittle hitting the floor. My hands clenched, nails biting into my palms. I tasted blood.
Someone laughed behind me. Low. Controlled.
When I looked up, they were already standing, already blending back into the room like nothing had happened. No one else seemed to notice. Or maybe they noticed and chose not to.
I finished taping my wrists with shaking fingers.
I went to the bathroom to wash my face.
The door had barely swung shut behind me when it slammed open again. Two of them came in. One locked the door.
The first punch caught me across the jaw.
My head snapped sideways, teeth clacking together hard enough that I felt something chip. I staggered, reaching for the sink, but the second one grabbed my jersey and yanked me upright.
"You don't listen," he said calmly.
His knee drove into my thigh. Once. Twice. The second strike landed deeper, crushing muscle. My leg buckled and I slammed into the tiled wall. The impact rattled my skull.
"Still think this is a game?" another voice asked.
A fist sank into my stomach. All the air left me again. I folded, gagging, saliva stringing from my mouth. Before I could recover, fingers dug into my hair and slammed my forehead into the mirror.
Glass cracked.
Pain exploded across my face. Warmth poured down my nose, dripping onto my jersey, onto the white sink, staining everything it touched. My ears rang violently.
"Referees don't see everything," someone whispered close to my ear. "Crowds don't care who bleeds."
They let me drop.
I stayed on the floor for a moment, curled on my side, chest heaving, vision swimming. My leg throbbed like it had been struck with a hammer. My jaw screamed every time I swallowed.
When I finally stood, I did it slowly. Carefully.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Blood smeared my face. My eyes were glassy, unfocused. There was a cut above my brow already swelling shut. I pressed a paper towel against my nose until the bleeding slowed, then wiped the sink clean. Habit. Instinct.
No evidence.
I unlocked the door and walked back into the locker room.
No one asked anything.
By the time we lined up to enter the court, my body was already fighting itself. Every step sent pain shooting up my leg. My ribs burned when I breathed too deeply. My jaw throbbed with a dull, constant ache that made me want to grind my teeth until they broke.
As we stepped into the open, the roar of the crowd hit like a wave. Noise. Movement. Colour. The court shimmered under the lights.
For a moment, I forgot the pain.
Then I saw Eunice.
She stood near the front, hands clasped tight in front of her, eyes scanning the players as we came out. When she saw my face properly, her hand flew to her mouth.
I looked away immediately.
The whistle blew.
The game started.
From the first possession, they came for me.
A shoulder drove into my back when I jumped for a rebound. I landed awkwardly, pain tearing through my thigh. No call. A foot clipped my ankle as I sprinted down the court. I stumbled. Laughter from the opposing bench.
Every contact lingered a second too long. Every screen was a little dirtier. Hands grabbed jerseys. Elbows flared wide.
Once, someone stepped on my foot deliberately and leaned in close.
"You should've stayed out of this," he said, smiling for the cameras.
I pushed through it.
I saw Eunice stand up after a particularly hard foul, shouting something I couldn't hear over the crowd. I didn't look back again.
By the second quarter, sweat mixed with blood on my skin. My vision tunneled at the edges. Every breath scraped my ribs raw.
And still, they weren't done.
Near the sideline, as I chased a loose ball, someone shoved me from behind. I flew forward, crashing shoulder-first into the floor. Pain detonated up my arm, white and blinding. I lay there for a second too long, the world spinning.
The referee's whistle came late.
As I pushed myself up, someone leaned down and hissed,
"This is only the beginning."
I believed him.
By the time I reached the bench, my body felt borrowed. Used. Bruised in ways I knew would bloom black and purple by nightfall.
I sat there, breathing through clenched teeth, watching the game slip away point by point.
Student Week was supposed to end with cheers.
Instead, I realized something terrifying:
They weren't trying to win.
They were trying to break me.
I barely noticed the buzzer for halftime. My chest heaved, ribs screaming with every breath, and my legs felt like lead. Sweat and blood mixed into a stinging film across my skin. The coach came over, patting my shoulder, but I didn't respond. I could feel his concern anyway, he didn't need words.
One of my teammates collapsed onto the bench beside me, wincing and clutching a bruise on his side. He tried to wave off the pain, but the grimace told its own story. The medic gave him a quick check. "You're done for the game," she said. He nodded silently, swallowing his pride.
The substitution was official. I didn't want to leave. I could feel every nerve in my body screaming at me to get back on the court, to fight, to prove that the assaults, the dirtiness, the bruisesâthey hadn't won. But my legs refused. My ribs refused. My jaw refused. And I had already pushed past the point of simple pain.
The second half began, and the opposing team kept their pressure. They knew they had us; they could feel the fatigue, the frustration. But then something shifted. Something inside me.
I wasn't just tired. I wasn't just bruised. I was angry.
It wasn't the adrenaline surge you get from a fast break or a steal. This was deeper, sharper, a raw, white-hot drive that demanded payback. Not reckless, not indiscriminate. Calculated. Focused.
I glanced toward the coach, who was barking instructions at the others. My eyes met Eunice's in the crowd. She looked concerned, hands gripping the edge of the railing, her lips pressed tight. I pretended not to see.
Then I did see.
Something about her gaze, half warning, half challenge, lit a spark. A split-second decision. I would show them. Show the court. Show everyone that I wasn't just a victim of fouls and dirty tricks. I had my own game.
I moved back onto the court as the coach called me. Substituted for another teammate whose bruise hadn't allowed him to continue. Pain radiated through every step, but the burning inside me drowned it out.
The ball came to me in the midcourt. I faked left, then right. The defender lunged, trying to intercept. I pivoted, spinning off balance, heart hammering. And then, my moment.
The three-pointer. My specialty.
The court seemed to slow down. I could see the defender's eyes widen too late, see my teammate open for a potential rebound. My fingers released the ball with perfect timing.
The swoosh of net and the sudden explosion of cheers hit me like water after fire. The opposing team froze. My team surged forward, feeding off the momentum. I moved again, midcourt shoot, another opening, this one harder, longer. Another release, and the ball arced perfectly into the basket.
Every strike, every calculated move, was more than points. It was retribution. Not revenge in a bitter sense, but the satisfaction of balance. The court had been unfair, the assaults had been cruel, but nowâŠnow the game bent to my will.
Eunice's eyes caught mine again. She didn't look relieved, she looked concerned, yes, but alsoâŠimpressed. There was something in the way she clenched her fists and then exhaled sharply. She had seen the strategy, the intensity.
But the match wasn't over.
The other team wasn't going to back down. They were ruthless, fueled by their own bruised pride. Every possession became a battlefield. Hands grabbed jerseys, elbows flashed, knees collided. One of my teammates fell hard, and the ref finally started calling fouls, but only after the damage was done.
I ducked, spun, passed, feinted, shot. Every movement carried the weight of pain and determination. Each play was a statement: I wasn't weak. I wouldn't yield.
By the final quarter, our team started to pull ahead. But the adrenaline had an edge. I was exhausted, bleeding slightly from a cut near my eyebrow, muscles screaming. My vision blurred at the corners. Every sense screamed for me to collapse, to quit, to give in.
I didn't.
With minutes left, the score was tight. One last push, one more clean shot, and the game would be ours. I faked a pass, slipped past the defender, and launched myself toward the three-point line, spinning in midair. The shot arced perfectly. Swish.
The buzzer went.
We had won.
But it didn't feel like victoryânot truly. Not after the pain, the assaults, the betrayal of trust in a place that was supposed to be safe. My body was wrecked. My nerves were frayed. The euphoria that usually follows a win was muted by exhaustion and something heavier, realization.
Student Week was over, but its mark lingered. The triumph, the adrenaline, the cheers, they didn't erase the assaults, the bruises, the warning signs that something darker simmered beneath the surface.
I found Eunice in the crowd after the match. She rushed over, face pale, eyes wide.
"YouâŠyou were terrible out there," she said, but her voice was soft, layered with concern. "I meanâŠthey could have really hurt you."
I laughed dryly, trying to mask the rage and pain with a casual shrug. "I survived."
Her hand brushed against my arm, tentative, almost pleading. "This isn't a game anymore. Not for them. Be careful. Don't invite people in too quickly. Not everyone is likeâŠus."
Her words, half warning, half worry, cut deeper than any bruise. I wanted to nod, to agree, but part of me wasn't ready to admit that the court, the match, even the friendships, weren't safe.
And yet, I knew. I knew the game had ended for me, in a way it hadn't for anyone else.
The locker room afterward was silent, almost sterile. My teammates celebrated quietly, exhausted smiles and pats on the back, but I sat apart, staring at the floor. The adrenaline was fading, leaving only the ache in my chest, the throb in my leg, the sharp line of pain across my jaw.
I thought of home, of the life I had outside this campus, of the way the world could turn in a single moment. The win didn't feel like enough. Not after the assaults, not after the warnings. Not after seeing how quickly something fun could turn into something sharp, dangerous, and real.
For the first time, I realized that victory wasn't always about points, or games, or trophies. Sometimes, it was about surviving.
And sometimesâŠsurviving was just the beginning.